


Safety Dance

by quixoticquest



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: 18 year olds, Aged-Up Character(s), Bullying, Coming Out, Crushes, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Homophobia, Jealousy, Love Triangle, M/M, POV Alternating, ben loves his friends too much, best friends Richie and Stan, don't worry it's not an offensive one, eddie is gay, reddie-centric, richie's mouth, the prom fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-03-03 16:25:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13345008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quixoticquest/pseuds/quixoticquest
Summary: As the least popular kids in school, it makes sense that the Losers Club would abstain from their high school prom. That's what Stan, Eddie, Beverly, and Richie decide at lunch, but as the dreaded night approaches, that decision starts to unravel - all thanks to Bev, who's got a bleeding heart for gay asthmatics with a temper.





	1. Eddie

**Author's Note:**

> In this one everyone goes to Derry High. Call it an AU, or just imagine Beverly moved with her aunt from Portland, and Mike transferred at some point.

“You’re soaking wet,” Beverly announced, drawing Eddie’s gaze up from his history textbook.

 

But she wasn’t looking at him; her and Stanley’s wide-eyed looks of astonishment were pointed _behind_ Eddie. Brows cinched together, he shifted around on the bench to see what they were seeing. Safe to say, when he did, he matched their expressions to a tee.

 

“What? I am?!” A very drippy Richie Tozier cried, dropping his lunch tray on the table beside Eddie to grope his own sopping shirt. His inky hair was plastered to his glasses in thick swirls. “Jesus, why didn’t anyone tell me?! Have I been goin’ the whole day like this?”

 

Beverly’s alarmed countenance quickly turned dry, and she began rifling around in her gym bag for something to serve as a towel. Beside her, Stanley just looked disgusted.

 

“Wound up with the wrong end of my body on the porcelain throne, I’m afraid,” Richie lamented dramatically, while Eddie snatched up his textbook and bagged lunch to avoid any kind of splash that would leave him hospitalized for weeks upon ingestion. “By no fault of my own, I didn’t slip or nothing. I mean, look, a guy sees the package I’m carrying at the urinal, he’s gonna get a little jealous. I can’t blame him if he got blinded by envy long enough to get my head in the water.”

 

A chorus of _ew_ s rang out at the mostly empty lunch table, and before Eddie could do anything about it, Richie was moving to arc his long legs over the bench next to him.

 

“What are you doing?! You can’t sit here!” Eddie spluttered, unable even to will himself to shove Richie away, much less with his arms full his own belongings.

 

“But I always sit here.”

 

“Not when you’re covered in fucking toilet water!”

 

“Don’t worry, Eds, he flushed first. And my butt didn’t touch the seat, like it’s s’posed to.”

 

Eddie could only make frustrated almost-yelling noises, as Richie finally descended to sit with little more than a self-satisfied _ahh_. Slamming his book shut, and dragging his lunch to the end of the table, Eddie scooted as far as possible while still managing to remain on the bench. Stan provided justification when he did the same thing across from Richie, legs swinging over the other side so that he was almost facing away and holding his cup of yogurt aloft in his hands.

 

Beverly finally dragged her gym shirt out, and tossed it diagonal across the table to Richie. “Don’t you think maybe you should go to the nurse to get something dry to wear?”

 

“Nah, I got gym next period anyway.” He pressed the cotton top against his face first, depositing his glasses on the table to pat the area dry, before scrubbing at his hair. Beverly did not look like she wanted her shirt back. “I’ll be in dry clothes just in time for soccer, lay my shirt across the radiator for forty-five minutes, badda-bing badda-boom.”

 

“Yeah, and burn down the school while you’re at it,” Stan muttered.

 

“I’ll be outside when it does, no skin off my nose.”

 

Eddie chanced another bite of his sandwich, keeping it to himself, that he wouldn’t mind seeing Derry High a pile of rubble. So long as he wasn’t in it. The fact that Richie had managed to make it all the way from the lavatories to the cafeteria looking like a drowned rat, without a single faculty member stopping him along the way just went to show how detestable the entire population of the building was, anyway.

 

“Oh shit, I forgot to read that,” Richie huffed, leaning over close enough that Eddie was arching away again. At least he wasn’t _dripping_ now. “Is the quiz today? Fuck it. I can probably seduce Mr. Bradburry. You can’t coach high school baseball and not be into ass.”

 

“Richie!”

 

“What, I’m just saying!”

 

Finally, he had transitioned from soaking to just-kind-of-damp enough to put his glasses back on and start on his french fries, and Eddie could only _pray_ he’d washed his hands, even though Richie washing his hands on any given day was a toss-up. Gradually, they all started shifting closer to the table at glacial speeds, when Richie’s hair started drying in a frizz of dark waves, not that he seemed to care.

 

They were especially inclined to draw closer together when Gretta Keene’s voice demanded their attention from the table behind them. Babbling along with all the fake sincerity of a regular high school bitch, flanked on either side by her field hockey buddies, all three holding manila envelopes to their chests while she regarded the people there.

 

“What’s all that?” Eddie asked dully, knowing it could mean any number of things when popular girls went around the cafeteria to solicit.

 

“Probably soul contracts,” Beverly retorted, turning back to the table with a knowing smile.

 

“Too bad you’ve already given yours away, Richie,” Stan said.

 

“No I haven’t! Didn’t I tell you? Satan lost that dick measuring contest.” He laughed around all the potato and burger mush in his mouth, flicking his brows up at all three surrounding faces. Eddie performed the perfunctory eye roll, but didn’t resist a punch to Richie’s side, where the stains of water didn’t quite reach.

 

“I’ll see you there!” Apparently having finished her business at the other table, Gretta and her lackeys moved on. Just when Eddie thought they might stop at his next (a really stupid idea, in retrospect), keeping his eyes on his textbook just in case, she and her trained monkeys carried right on past. Eddie’s gaze flicked up, and he didn’t miss the contemptuous look cast in their general direction before Gretta set her sights on the next table.

 

Thinking they had dodged a bullet, Eddie then watched Richie put his elbows on the table, and hunker down to bring his hands cupped around his mouth. “Oh gee, whatcha got there, Gretta?” he yelled between his palms, all feigned curiosity that had Eddie fighting not to laugh outright, or deliver a more severe punch.

 

It got her to turn around anyway, apparently lacking the dignity it took to ignore a remark from Trashmouth Tozier (and Eddie couldn’t quite blame her, for that one). Jaw set, Gretta returned to their table, goons in tow.

 

Eddie didn’t quite have what it took to look her in the eye. Neither did Stan, who seemed to have found something awfully interesting studying the inside of his water bottle. Richie and Beverly provided all the attention she needed though.

 

“Prom tickets are on sale,” Gretta bit out, pulling a sheaf of mint green papers from the envelope in her arm. “Don’t tell me you’re interested.”

 

Richie hummed. “And if I am?” Before anyone could quite respond, his arm shot out across the table, swiping a page free before Gretta could step away. The rest of the papers weren’t quite saved from a spot of water from Richie’s damp sleeve, and it was impossible to miss Stan, Beverly - and Eddie, for that matter - covering their mouths against outright laughter. She didn’t even know.

 

“Then I’d say money’s money, and you’ve got ‘til next Friday to fill out the form and make a payment. You could even pay now if you want.”

 

“ _A Night in Paris_ ,” Richie recited from the form, as perfectly happy to handle this exchange as Eddie was to let him. “Ooh la la, _c'est trop bête_! Sounds fancy. Didja get it from all the other schools in Maine, or just every dance episode from any given TV show?”

 

“I didn’t come up with the name.” Gretta’s eyes narrowed, visibly ruffled, from sneakers to brown roots, peeking out of her otherwise blonde hair. “If you don’t like it, you don’t have to go.”

 

Then, Eddie realized he’d made the mistake of looking at her for too long. Long enough for her to lock eyes with him, and for him to be too chickenshit to look away, as she came forward to lean over the table on one stocky arm, the other planted on her hip.

 

“And I hate to break it to you guys, but the couples tickets aren’t for pairs of _boys_ , okay?” she enunciated, with a sickly sweet tone to her voice just this side of patronizing. Then, Eddie was too chickenshit _not_ to look away.

 

“I think we’re okay,” Beverly declared tightly, plucking the form from Richie’s hands to shove back into Gretta’s hands. “Thanks.”

 

“Whatever. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you you’re better off not going.” With a nod over her shoulder, Gretta was off to the next table, taking her friends and toilet water forms with her.

 

“Come on, Bev! Don’t you wanna participate in this enthralling high school milestone? The _promenade_?” Richie gushed animatedly (mockingly), once Gretta was out of earshot. “When you peak in high school, it’s all there is left!”

 

“Oh please,” Eddie muttered, in an effort to shake off the gut wrenching feeling in his stomach. If this was peaking, he couldn’t imagine what could be worse post-graduation.

 

“You can’t pretend she’s not right,” Stanley chimed in, drawing all three gazes. By the look on his face, he didn’t expect all the attention.

 

“Thanks, Stan,” Beverly said.

 

“Not you. Gretta.” Stan rolled his eyes. “But you’re right too. Thing is, we are better off not going. I’ll tell you what’s going to happen right now. The seven of us will all fill up a table, and sit there for the entire night. Even if we each get a dance in with you, Beverly, or with someone else, by the grace of God, it will be ninety percent sitting in tuxedos that aren’t worth the money they are to rent. If any of us get up it will be to get food or go to the bathroom, and if we don’t come back in five minutes, we come back in ten minutes, looking like _that_ -” He pointed across the table at Richie, still visibly sodden from his incident in the restroom. “Except then you have to pay a fine or buy the tuxedo you’ve ruined, that’s already too expensive, and then you’re down a whole bunch of money for the suit, the ticket, and if you get boutonnieres and corsages and a limo and everything, well then you might as well have blown all your college savings away.”

 

Huffing a breath, Stan got to cleaning up his lunch, balling up trash to deposit in his brown paper bag with a particular vengeance.

 

“Damn,” Eddie murmured. The prospect of prom hadn’t been particularly appealing anyway, but he didn’t think it had to be put into words. There was the extra little bit of discomfort that had to do with the self-preservation that came with not wanting to out himself in such a _romantic_ setting (if plastic tablecloths and teen pregnancies were supposed to be romantic), to a bunch of people that already expected he was hotter for the football team than he was for the cheerleaders anyway.

 

“Leave it to you to work out the finances,” Richie snorted, drawing a pointed look from Stan.

 

“I just don’t think we should all feel obligated to go,” Beverly said, “but I agree, too.”

 

“So what? Are we making a pact not to go to prom?” Eddie asked, trying to wrap up this conversation so he could get back to his textbook before he got ripped a new asshole for forgetting miniscule details about the Battle of the Bulge.

 

“You know what? We should.”

 

Not sure he had heard right, Eddie’s attention was demanded once more. “I was mostly kidding.”

 

Beverly smiled, and shrugged. “Yeah but, why not? It’s like a little protest. Maybe it won’t do much, but at least we’ll all be on the same page.”

 

“Yeah, I can’t imagine Bill, Ben, and Mike feel much differently,” Stan said, setting his head on his hand.

 

“So it’s settled. The Losers Club is not going to prom.”

 

“Anti-prom?” Richie asked excitedly.

 

“What? No. That’s too much work.”

 

“That’s boring!” Throwing his hands in the air, Richie made to lean back, only to remember there was no seat back, and swing back to hunch over the table with a lot of hectic motion that Eddie wound up having to dodge.

 

“You could come over,” Stan offered, a pillar of calm compared to Richie’s frantic gesticulation. “If you’re so convinced you can’t entertain yourself just because it’ll be prom night. The rec room just stopped smelling like fresh paint, so we can watch movies down there or something.”

 

“You heard it here folks, Stanley Uris is willing to do _anything_ to keep me occupied,” Richie proclaimed with a smarmy grin, effectively dodging Stan’s bag of lunch trash a second later.

 

While Beverly laughed, Eddie turned his nose into his textbook, trying to decide if he was offended or not that he hadn’t been invited. He couldn’t really be upset with the dynamic of best friends, after all. It wasn’t Stan or Richie’s fault they had become that way before Bill and Eddie found them, nor were the hurt feelings Eddie had been kicking and shoving away from the forefront of his thoughts ever since he was seven.

 

With his head bent towards stark Time New Roman and black and white pictures of a battle-torn Belgium, descriptions of an Allied victory blurred in front of his eyes as his mind started to wander toward thoughts of a more perfect world. Where he could be out to more than just his close-knit group of friends. Where Richie could dance better than his chaotic _Risky Business_ impression, and Eddie wouldn’t be afraid to ask one of his closest buddies to prom, even if he played it off as “just as friends” at first. Because then the night could lead to fun and carefree avenues with their friends, where anything was possible.

 

In a perfect world, Richie just might fall for him by the end of the night.

 

“Battle of the Bulge, huh,” Richie asked all of a sudden, having encroached on Eddie’s personal space bubble at some point when he hadn’t noticed. “Too bad it’s not the Battle of _this_ Bulge, or I’d ace this thing.”

 

“How ‘bout the bulge in your face when I smack you upside the head!” Eddie shot back in a flurry, flinging Richie away with a hard shove against his cheek.

 

“Eddie, his head was in a toilet bowl!” Beverly cried.

 

“Are you- fuck, shit!”

 

Eddie scrambled to his feet, hellbent on the the bathroom while Richie dissolved into laughter behind him. And he couldn’t help but think, in a perfect world Richie just might be less of a jack ass.


	2. Ben

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another AU detail - I know Victor and Belch were killed by Henry in the deleted scenes, but this story needs some bullies, and since it was actually a "deleted" scene, I took some creative liberties. I dunno, I just try to justify my decisions too hard lol.

The language of flowers could not have been further outside the realm of Ben’s expertise - heck, of all his academic classes, his Spanish grade was the spottiest, which just went to show his penchant for languages beyond the one he spoke. Deciphering some cryptic descriptor word for every variety of flora was beyond him, once he started getting into the double meanings. At least there were no conjugations.

 

But he thought he had managed just fine, he hoped, although there was always the prospect of _overdoing it_. The potential that he might have gone a little overboard.

 

Situated under his desk, propped ever so delicately between the wall and his backpack, Ben had positioned a modest bouquet that he’d picked up during lunchtime, full of bouvardia (enthusiasm), Queen Anne’s lace (sanctuary), amaryllis (splendid beauty), and aster (patience).

 

Okay, so maybe not all that modest. And it hadn’t been a modest price either. But you couldn’t just dwindle Beverly Marsh down to a couple of adjectives. Ben had to narrow the extensive list as is. The florist was certainly surprised to find the voice on the phone call for such a piece belonged to a big-boned high school senior paying in cash and a handful of quarters.

 

All that was left was to flick out this little verse that he’d been stringing together for a few days. Letting the florist do it in her flowing script seemed ingenuine. It was certainly prettier than his chicken scratch, but the chicken scratch was part of him.

 

He was thinking about this too hard, he told himself again, glancing up at the intercom for the afternoon announcements before class ended. As if a single iota of a kind gesture would affect the decision for someone like Beverly. She wouldn’t nitpick as much as Ben had.

 

Bent over a stolen piece of his mom’s fancy stationery, one hand curled around the outside to avoid prying eyes and fingers, a Post-It note fluttered down in front of Ben’s face like some kind of geometric butterfly. Blinking, he plucked it up before it had the chance to smear his ink, just in time for Stan to breeze by his desk on the way out to catch a ride. He managed to throw a glance over his shoulder, to make sure Ben got the gist, before offering a wave and heading out the door.

 

Notes were not uncommon in Spanish IV, where Señora Barnes condemned any and all spoken English except in dire emergencies (none of which Ben had experienced; not even fire drills counted). Making sure his teacher wasn’t looking, Ben set his card aside to read from the blue square of paper.

 

_We’re all ditching the prom. Plans for pizza and a movie night instead._

 

Well shit.

 

The bell rang, and while everyone else rushed to out to get stuck in the traffic nightmare of the student parking lot, Ben moved slower, saddled with the weight of new information. Even then, he couldn’t stop from penning out the last of his poem, tucking it among the flowers, and refraining from tossing the bouquet in the trash outside the door. Carrying the dumb thing down the crowded hallway opened up a lot of avenues for ridicule (and destruction), so he moved fast, except around corners, where he paused to look, and then hurry by.

 

Beverly wasn’t at her locker yet when he came shuffling up - apparently having decided his course of action without any thought. _Continue with the original plan_ , he told himself anyway, since thought was important. There was no harm in _asking_ , after all. If Beverly wanted to do the movie night thing, fine, great. If she said yes, even better. Maybe there was even time for both. Just this once, maybe it didn’t have to be an all Losers thing.

 

Taking a deep breath, even though she wasn’t even there yet, Ben took sure strides forward until he was up against the dull green lockers, hoping no one came by to push him aside to collect their things from the ones he was blocking physically. That was just what he needed right now, some comment about how he took up too much space.

 

Just then, the last person Ben expected came striding out of the fray. Bill, on long legs, looking around with that hopeful look in his eye. Then his gaze fell on Ben, and it left.

 

“Oh, hey.” He smiled, which was a fine trade off anyway. “You ss-seen Bev?”

 

“No,” Ben answered honestly, flower petals tickling the bottom of his chin. There wasn’t any point in asking in kind.

 

Bill seemed to finally have noticed the bouquet, or had just decided to acknowledge it. No point saying anything immediately. Customary of a thoughtful Bill.

 

“Is th-that for Beverly?”

 

No point lying, either. “Yeah.”

 

Bill’s lips pursed together, brow knitting, and Ben couldn’t quite tell if he was upset, or just confused. He was glad not to be looking up to him anymore - in the physical sense, anyway. The idiom would live on forever.

 

No, Ben had quite the growth spurt. Not quite as much as Stan or Richie but enough that he didn’t have to tip his face to the sky if he wanted to look Bill in the eye.

 

Suddenly Bill’s arm came away from his side, and for the first time Ben noticed a gold paper box tied in elastic string, with a folded piece of paper stuck under the bow. It fit snugly in Bill’s hands.

 

Ben should have seen this coming, but he didn’t expect Bill to get going the very day he himself had decided to. If anything, Ben thought he had a head start.

 

“Are you gonna-”

 

“Y-yeah. You?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“They’re chocolates, from that p-puh-place she likes,” Bill explained softly, looking down at the little package like it was precious, while Ben sighed himself into infinity. He should have thought of that. It was personal! And the little paper stuck in the middle was probably an equally personal drawing.

 

Well, this sucked. Ben had always rested easy knowing neither his nor Bill’s crush on Beverly was enough to distract from what was leagues more important. They were all friends first. Sometimes he wondered if it was because they were to afraid to manage much more than compliment her. This was way more than a compliment, though. Even then, it didn’t necessarily have to be _romantic_.

 

And yet, he couldn’t keep himself from some wanting to be a little bit selfish, just this once.

 

“Didn’t you hear?” Ben asked, not really sure what he was trying to accomplish as the words came flying out of his mouth. At least they were immune to the passerby. Or vice versa, rather. “No one’s going to prom. Stan said so.”

 

“Yeah, Eddie t-t-told me,” Bill replied, nodding down the hallway toward Eddie’s locker. “He said B-Bev is the one wh-who brought it up.”

 

“Oh.” Ben blinked. Well, if anything was going to deter him, it was definitely that.

 

But Bill was still standing there.

 

“You know, you should go to that movie night thing,” Ben tried, face lighting up while his soul clung to a hurtling pebble of hope. “You’ve been so busy with work lately, when’s the last time you’ve seen most of us, all in one room?”

 

“Y-yeah, yeah that’s true” Bill said earnestly, shifting from one foot to the next. “But you too, aren’t you still t-tutoring kids, after ss-school? Th-that takes up ss-s-so much time.”

 

“It does, it does.” Ben nodded solemnly, rocking forward on his heels.

 

Silence. Against the bustle of the corridor, slowly thinning out. Ben couldn’t help but find it a little funny, the closest they would get to an argument. Even just using that word as the descriptor made his stomach turn.

 

He watched Bill’s eyes go around the perimeter of the hallway, the only person in the entire world who could pull off an eye roll without it being ill-intended. Bill was the worst person to be against in this situation. Ben just wanted to give him everything he wanted. It was an effort to hold his nerve.

 

Green eyes returned to him, Ben straightened when Bill looked about to speak again. “Y-y-y’know, w-we could both-”

 

“Hey guys!” Beverly chirped, prompting both of them to pull away from her locker, offering utmost room. “Chem killed me. I don’t have goggle marks, do I? Who’s that for?”

 

Finding crisp blue eyes staring up at him from around the metal door, Ben’s eyebrows rose, forgetting the bouquet for a moment.

 

“Huh? Oh! This.” He waved the bushel around a little, several different thoughts flitting through his mind while his cheeks went warm, even though he should have been thinking of _one_. He had the benefit of getting noticed over Bill, after all. For once!

 

“My mom,” he blurted out, a succinct lie breezing out a split second later. “It’s her birthday. I got it during lunch.”

 

“Aw, that so nice,” Beverly said, almost sounding surprised, while Ben wondered if he had utterly failed to convey his sensitive nature over the years. It didn’t matter anyway, all he felt like was a big chicken right now. Maybe it was Bill’s fault.

 

“Yeah, I’m holding these ff-f-for him,” their fearless leader said from the other side of the locker a moment later. Face screwed up in confusion, Ben peered around to stare while Beverly crouched to collect her belongings from the bottom. Bill just shrugged, looking as helpless as Ben felt. A silver platter gone to waste.

 

Not that Ben minded.

 

“What do you guys think about Stan’s house on prom night?” she asked, bouncing up a moment later, ponytail fluffing against her shoulder. “Instead of going, I mean. It’s just so much hassle I think. I’d rather spend money on something useful than a dress - well, depending on the dress.”

 

Ben and Bill glanced at each other. A moment later, they were saying what a great idea it was, over top of one another.

 

“Oh, great.” Beverly laughed, shutting her locker soundly. Ben felt himself straighten a little too eagerly when she turned to him. “I guess you’re headed right home, huh? ‘Cause I thought-”

 

An enormous, guttural burp erupted from the end of the hallway, drawing attention on all sides. Most remaining people were carrying on their merry way a second later, but Ben fixed his eyes on Eddie, hunched into his locker like an escape lay on the other side of it. And look who was crowding him on either side.

 

“That’s fucking disgusting!” Ben heard him say, only to get knocked off his feet as Victor Criss yanked him hard enough by the handle on his backpack to send him sprawling.

 

“Come on, I thought queers were into fucked up shit like that,” he sneered. Eddie tried to get up, but Victor got the heel of his boot on a flat part of backpack, leaving Eddie swinging and grunting in an effort to free himself while Belch hunkered down close to do his one pony trick again.

 

Reflexively, Ben turned to Bill, as if he had a detailed plan of action to send them off on. As much as Ben would have liked his instinct to be launching in to save the day, fear gripped him a little too strongly. Which probably made him a coward, and a crappy friend.

 

“He doesn’t like when w-we interfere,” Bill said anyway, glancing between Ben and Beverly like he was shocked they were turning to him for guidance. “You know how he is.”

 

“Bullshit,” Beverly shot back (a snappy statement that did something funny to ol’ Ben Hanscom). Jaw set for a moment, she stared forward thoughtfully, until her eyes landed on Ben again.

 

“Can I borrow this?”

 

Before he could respond, or register what was meant to be borrowed, she had taken the bouquet right from his hands. Similarly, she plucked the box out of Bill’s with less pomp and circumstance. In an instant, Beverly was whirling down the hallway, leaving two boys dumbfounded and empty handed.

 

“Eddie Kaspbrak, I can’t believe you!” she exclaimed, coming to a stop in front of the three at the other end of the hall. Eddie, Victor, and Belch all stared at her, like this was a natural course of events that she had just thrown a wrench in.

 

“Move, fuck off,” Beverly demanded - and Victor and Belch did, apparently unsure of what to do with her, it seemed. Some unspoken reason why they weren’t willing to put their hands on her and put _her_ on the floor. Not in public anyway, but Ben was more comfortable thinking they were scared of her.

 

With the tormentors backing away, Beverly had all the room in the world (minus the stragglers still gathered at their lockers) to pull Eddie to his feet and and throw her laden arms around him in an exuberant hug.

 

“Flowers? Chocolates?! Of course I’ll go to prom with you!” she squealed in a very un-Beverly way, while Ben and Bill had nothing to do but whip their heads toward one another. “You sure know how to treat a girl.”

 

“Thank you?” Eddie answered, in a shrill question that threatened to dismantle the ruse.

 

An arm still slung around his shoulder, Beverly cast a dirty look in the direction of a very bewildered Victor and Belch, returning to her locker with Eddie in her grasp like a wayward child. He looked more alarmed than he had been at the mercy of those two buffoons, who were lumbering in the opposite direction in search of some other poor soul to scare.

 

Ben’s (Beverly’s, really) bouquet was returned to him, and the chocolates that he actually had no part of. But Bill looked just as unlikely to say anything as he was.

 

“I’ve never seen those a day in my life,” Eddie insisted, twirling a finger at the offending objects, when the coast was clear.

 

“I know, sorry,” Beverly murmured with a quiet chuckle, like she wasn’t really sorry at all. But there was something else a little sad in her sky blue eyes, impossible for Ben not to notice. “I know you probably don’t care, but they just piss me off. And after what Gretta said at lunch…”

 

Frantic eyes flicking every which way, Eddie shrugged. It didn’t take a genius - among the Losers anyway - to know why all the F-words and Q-words upset him more than any of the others.

 

“Did you just ask Eddie to p-p-prom?” Bill asked, a little hesitant.

 

“No, he asked _me_ to prom.” Beverly winked.

 

“B-but there was ss-still an asking, of ss-sorts.”

 

“I know, but I don’t think we-”

 

“I think it’s a good idea,” Ben said all of a sudden. As usual when he had a hefty explanation coming on, his friends gave him their full attention. It was awfully hard not to kick himself for the selfless train of thought his brain had decided to go on, though.

 

“If you guys actually go, Eddie’s got immunity,” Ben told them. “Who’s going to call him gay, if he goes to prom with a girl? With _Beverly_.”

 

“I do have a bit of a reputation,” Beverly offered absently.

 

Ben felt his face get warmer. “That’s not what I-”

 

“I know.” She smiled. “But still, you’re right.”

 

“You think that’s gonna do anything?” Eddie wrinkled his nose. “Rather than just not going? What about movie night?”

 

“There’s hundreds of movies and hundreds of nights to watch them on,” Beverly replied. “You and me could use a break from these guys anyway. Come on, Eddie, it’ll be fun. We’ll _make_ it fun.”

 

Ironically, the only person who looked remotely nervous about this turn of events was the very person they were aiming to comfort. Ben glanced at Bill, and they seemed to be on the same supportive page. Even if it did make Ben’s stomach feel a little heavy.

 

Eddie huffed, and adjusted his backpack straps, clicking the plastic buckle in front over his chest. “I guess it’s worth a shot.”

 

“Awesome! Then it’s settled.” Beverly set her sights on Ben and Bill. “If anyone asks besides the other guys, Eddie asked me to prom, and it was amazing and heartfelt.” She slung her arm over Eddie’s shoulders, who was either smiling or grimacing, Ben couldn’t tell.

 

“Will do,” Ben said, easy and honest.

 

“M-me too.”

 

After Eddie and Beverly had gone, Ben returned Bill’s chocolates, and headed home. He gave his mom the bouquet after all, unable to convince himself to waste it. Why was loving so many people so damn hard?


	3. Stanley

With the hours after school consumed by homework, family obligations, and the frequent friendly get-together, Stanley was more likely than any of the idiots blabbering around him to actually put class time devoted to essay production to its intended purpose. Of course, that didn’t account for the rug of sensibility getting pulled out from fucking under him.

 

“Are you serious?” he demanded in a whisper, still bent over his English notes in an effort to fool himself, that he would get his work done. In front of him however, Richie had no qualms about draping his arms and legs in every direction possible, sitting sideways at his desk to boot. And somehow he would have his paper done hours before it was due, and he would still get a decent grade.

 

To the left of Stan, Ben nodded. “Bill and I were there. At first it was just to get Victor and Belch off him but, well, it sort of...snowballed.”

 

“Snowballed? How? Did they trip and fall into a suit and dress?” 

 

“And fall right out I bet, our itty bitty Eddie Spaghetti’s gonna have to get that shit taken  _ in _ ,” Richie guffawed, Coke-bottle lenses magnifying the wild glance from one friend to the other. “Am I right or am I right?”

 

Stan returned his attention to Ben with little ceremony. “So, what then? Eddie and Beverly are going to prom by themselves?” At least that meant he wasn’t tethered to any kind of expensive, harrowing obligation. If homecoming and the pep rally had been any indication, the fastest way to lose his kippah was to subject himself to the handsy chaos of entitled teenagers.

 

But judging by the way Ben took a breath big enough to swell his chest, sucking air through his teeth, it didn’t get to be that easy.

 

“Actually, Bill and I decided to go anyway,” he finally confessed, and Stan feared that if his own expression went any dryer, it would crumble to dust and fall off. “Because, well! Even though my heart tells me Beverly could kill every stupid chucklehead out there with her bare hands and a stiletto heel, my brain says, okay, but how many? If this whole thing is to protect Eddie then it would be pretty counterproductive to have them get there and he get pounded into the floor. Someone has to be there on standby.”

 

“Sure it has nothing to do with wanting to see Beverly all dolled up under strobe lights?” Stan uttered - admittedly, harsh. Ben chuckled ( _ nervously _ ), and immediately turned his nose back into his composition book to scribble harriedly. He had never been a good liar, especially when it came to their resident ginger.

 

“Well whatever, fuck you,” Stan added a second later, shuffling his own papers around his desk, not really searching for anything beyond a reason to look as unaffected as possible. So what if the majority of his friends were skipping out on plans at his house for some stupid charity act, with high school hormones leading the way? So nothing, that’s what.

 

“If it’s just going to be Mike, Richie, and me, then there will be less argument over comedy or action anyway.”

 

From in front of Stan, Richie sucked a noisy breath through his teeth, far noisier than Ben was even able. Apparently he had indulged his work for a moment, because it took a full one-eighty to have him facing Stan again.

 

“Oh, yeah, about that,” the trashmouth muttered, mouth twisted in a dramatic grimace that Stan fought with complete deadpan. “I might have hopped on the hypocrite bandwagon too. Gotta start my political career somewhere, I guess.”

 

That managed to dissolve Stanley’s careful demeanor though, eyes going wide while one brow arched in disbelief. “You too?”

 

“I know I know, ‘ _ et tu, Brute _ ?’ You must feel just like Jesus did when Judas ditched  _ him _ for prom.”

 

Stan sat back for a second, at a loss, pencil clattering to his desk. Were three out of the four people who initiated the decision just a day or so ago all this easily swayed?

 

“I’m sorry, why-”

 

“Oh! Right. Let me fill you in. See,  _ Jesus  _ is this guy who-”

 

“I know who Jesus is.” Wow, way to pull an Eddie, and fall for Richie’s bullshit, he chided himself. Stan could have sworn he was better than that, all things considered.

 

“I just - after everything we talked about, you managed to justify wasting money on a stupid school dance manufactured to celebrate popularity?” At least Ben could come up with a plausible excuse, however threadbare.

 

“Well see, I got to thinking,” Richie offered pointedly, scooting his  _ entire  _ desk-fused chair to face Stanley better, and blocking the aisle between him and Ben all the while. “A little baby boy like me isn’t getting invited to house parties, isn’t getting invited to galas or nothin’, and it’s probably gonna be that way for the rest of my life. I mean, beers and assless chaps in the Barrens is amazing, but sometimes you gotta dream a little bigger. Are you catching my drift, Stanley Manly?”

 

“Please, go on,” Stan bit out. Was Richie even capable of being succinct, or had Mrs. Tozier dropped him on his head one too many times?

 

“Anyway, I realized something! Prom gives me the perfect opportunity not only to experience a bunch of flailing drunk teenagers - when the punch gets spiked, inevitably, by me hopefully, oh boy oh boy - while also being able to show up in the best duds I’ll ever wear in my entire life. Unless I get married, I guess, but that’s all hoping we aren’t vaporized, come the turn of the century. That’s gonna make consummating pretty dang hard.”

 

Stan wouldn’t have minded getting vaporized right then and there, if only to keep himself from being subjected to this explanation that was committing mass genocide on his very own brain cells. As if he could feel them all screaming in agony, he put a hand to his temple gingerly.

 

“So you’re going to prom to wear a tuxedo and get drunk with people who hate you.”

 

“Well when you put it that way, Stan, it sounds stupid.”

 

“It is stupid! You can barely afford a fucking Happy Meal, how can you afford a tux?”

 

“My mom said she’d pay for me. So long as I don’t get anything green, ‘cause that’s not my color apparently. Which,  _ pff _ , fine, I guess. I mean she’s wrong but I love my mom so whatever.” Richie managed to huff and throw his arms up in a helpless shrug, all while shoving his frames up his nose.

 

“You’re a complete jack ass.” Stan couldn’t keep himself from spitting out, a little embarrassed by how easily he was letting his hurt feelings crawl out of his mouth. “You  _ know _ why you’re going.” And if they weren’t surrounded by chattering teenagers, Stan would have called him out for it just like he called out Ben.

 

But he didn’t, and Richie just blinked, until a hopeful smile burst across his face, exposing his beaver teeth a little too eagerly.

 

Stan just groaned, pretending he wasn’t seething. This time it was his turn to throw himself into his dumb essay, and tune out the asshole in front of him until the end of the period. Pretending he wasn’t enormously chafed that dumb horny crushes amounted to more than lifelong friendships, apparently.

-

“And then he tells me, he wants to spike the punch. What a crock of shit! As if the football team hasn’t been orchestrating that heist since September. Mike, honestly, I think he’s brain dead. The \part of his brain responsible for logical thought is rotting inside that thick skull of his.”

 

“The left side,” Mike filled in helpfully. Except it wasn’t helpful, and Stan was ready for the earth to take him back, right then and there.

 

A decidedly spontaneous decision to skip last period altogether and just go veg in the parking lot was made a little bit easier, when he found Mike wiping a powdery yellow assault from the maple trees off the front of his truck, headed out for early work release. Now instead of leaning against Bill’s car waiting for the bell to ring, he could lie in Mike’s, like some kind of farm themed therapy session.

 

The bed of Mike’s pickup truck provided the perfect solace for Stan’s frustration, offering open skies when he needed it, as well as a surface to kick against if he was annoyed enough to scuff his shoes. At least until school was over, and the parking lot flooded with judgemental young adults, Stan was perfectly happy to be vocal.

 

“I don’t know what he thinks,” he griped. “It’s  _ prom _ , it’s not some underground rave in New York City or LA. It’s Derry. What’s he going to do, dance with Eddie? No, I’ll tell you what - he’s gonna sit there with his thumbs up his ass when we could be watching movies in the comfort of my own home.”

 

“Not sure if I should be offended or not. I'm a we, aren't I?” Mike murmured, all smiles while he wiped down the pollen on the windows. “I was perfectly happy with movie night.”

 

Frowning, Stan set his chin on the edge of the bed, choosing not to answer. It didn’t take Mike Hanlon to let him know he was just being a little bit ridiculous. But he liked to think he could afford to, with all the hoops Richie was jumping through, at Stan’s expense, to harangue and torment Eddie, and never breathe a word about his stupid feelings. Maybe he’d understand if Richie had the balls to actually ask out their  _ openly gay friend _ (open to them anyway), but since what Stan had to compete with wasn’t even a romantically significant other, he figured he had a right to be upset.

 

Not to mention the rest of his friends abandoning safety to be brash, lecherous, or both.

 

“It’s just stupid,” was all he could dwindle it down to, shifting to sit on the edge of the truck bed, legs dangling off the end. Mike finally threw his rag into the back, and hopped up to sit next to Stan.

 

“Hey, listen, maybe we should just go too,” he mentioned, only for Stan’s eyes to flick over and for his soft expression to take on one of horror.

 

“Oh no. Not you too-”

 

“Well if everyone else is going.”

 

“If we did what everyone else did, I wouldn’t have to leave Spanish early every day to preserve my well-being.”

 

“ _ Our _ everyone,” Mike specified, for which Stanley had no difficult remarks. “I’m just saying, we always have fun together. The food is probably good, and I’m pretty sure most jocks are gonna be too wrapped up in their girlfriends and the condoms they’re hiding in the glove box to even pay attention to us. If you’re so worried about wasting money, I’m sure we could cut out some stuff. Who needs a limo anyway, I bet Bill would drive us. And honestly, tuxedo rentals aren’t that bad. It’s the dresses that sap you dry.”

 

Stan continued to frown, unable to preserve his miserable mood any other way. He couldn’t help thinking back to his mantra, his prom philosophy practically, and how Mike had managed to dismantle almost every one of the major problems - without even hearing it.

 

But did that mean he was willing to go?

 

“I’m down with whatever you’re down with,” Mike added, hands up to his chest, as if he had anything to defend against.  “Popcorn and movies or dancing the night away, both sound fun to me.”

 

“Easy for you to say,” Stanley shot back with a roll of his eyes, trying not to think about how it had come down to Mike choosing him either way. Maybe just because he didn’t want him to be alone. “You’re the most likely out of all of us to get asked to dance.”

 

“Aw, Stan.” Mike beamed, which Stan countered effortlessly with his trademark poker face. The bell rang seconds later from across the lot at the school, and Stan slid out of the bed before he could get lulled too much by the sun and warm weather. It had been a pretty chilly spring so far.

 

“Sorry for keeping you,” he told Mike, who was supposed to have left a half hour ago.

 

“No worries. Anything to keep me from having to clean up sheep shit.” He laughed, and Stan left him to his vehicle, hoping that he hadn’t kept him so long that he might get caught up in the student traffic coming out of the school.

 

It didn’t take long to catch up to Bill’s sedan, Eddie and Richie already there with the big man himself, arguing about the reproductive tree dust spread across the hood.

 

“I can’t get in there,” he heard Eddie say, arms crossed tight over his chest, and the collar of his polo shirt pulled up over his nose. “My sinuses will puff up like a blowfish.”

 

“The w-wuh-window was only open a c-crack, Eddie, I don’t even th-think any got in.”

 

“Don’t worry fellas, I got this.” Rubbing his hands, Richie stooped down low, puffed out his cheeks, and blew across the glossy surface of the car. Pollen swept into the air in a cloud of yellow, sending Eddie screeching and cursing to the other side of the parking lot, or at least as far as he could get before stumbling into someone’s Jeep.

 

“Hey Ss-stan,” Bill said, and Stan had no choice but to lift his eyes away from the repugnant display that left Richie cackling like a witch and sprawled across Bill for support.

 

“Hey,” he returned, advancing to his usual place in the rightmost backseat, fingers on the door handle, at least while Eddie was going to keep his twenty feet radius, both middle fingers pointed skyward at Richie. What a pair of dumbasses. They were really perfect for each other.

 

“So I was thinking,” Stan said all of a sudden, pausing, maybe only so Richie could get a fucking hold of himself. But he had all the attention he could possibly need, anyway. As if he were giving a confession nothing short of the one Eddie had subject them all to around this time last year. Or Richie, two autumns ago in the privacy of his room.

 

“I’ll go to prom with you guys,” Stanley finally managed, not without a roll of his eyes, though. “I mean, not  _ with _ , but you know what I mean. I think Mike is too. I’m not sure.”

 

“No fooling?” Eddie asked suspiciously, finally getting up the courage to come back to the car, mouth and nose still hidden by a plane of blue cotton. Stan nodded.

 

“Well great!” Richie exclaimed, hands spread out as he looked excitedly around at his audience. “Now I don’t have to feel bad anymore. And you guys get to see me at, arguably, my highest point yet.”

 

“What changed your mind?” Eddie, again. “You seemed really adamant about it the other day.”

 

“Yeah, well,” Stan grumbled, fighting completely misdirected jealousy in the wake of what would probably be a perfectly harmless night - so long as Mike’s optimism was right, which was a lot more often than Stan liked to believe. “I just figured, why not? Since we always have fun together anyway.”

 

He could only hope Mike’s ears weren’t ringing from down the road.


	4. Beverly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally back! Sorry for the long hiatus. Now that it's summer break for me I'm hoping to have more time to write. I've had half of this draft sitting in my docs for months, and I'm glad to have finally finished it! Enjoy!

“Well that was a mess.” Beverly huffed an exasperated sigh, shoving through the glass door. The bell tinkled overhead, a tiny racket compared the enormous one that came with all the tulle and satin monstrosities in the boutique they just escaped from.

 

“I thought that yellow one was...nice,” Eddie tried.

 

“Not for two hundred dollars,” Beverly snorted. She had come a long way from the janitor’s daughter in a tiny apartment, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t frugal - even if her aunt was willing to cover half the price. The fact that a piece of clothing would cost so much, only to be worn once, was baffling.

 

They deposited themselves in Eddie’s (mom’s) car, Beverly sinking into the passenger’s seat with another disdainful noise. This was not as fun as she thought it was going to be. On top of the unreasonable price tags, she had forgotten it was prom season - somehow! - which meant diving into the racks every time they saw a group of girls from school. She already witnessed three buy the exact same dress. That would have been something juicy to talk about, if any of her six closest (male) friends gave a single fuck about gossip.

 

“Uh, Beverly,” Eddie began, half-distracted by the narrow parking lot while he shifted into reverse, to leave this store and never come back. “I’m not really sure how to put this, but...just because I like boys doesn’t mean I know anything, like  _ anything _ about fashion. I’m dumb as bricks. You could wear a potato sack and I would not be able to tell the difference.”

 

“I know,” Beverly replied, unable to keep the smirk out of the corner of her mouth. “That’s not why I asked you to come, though. You have to know what I’m wearing to match your vest and tie.”

 

“You’ll be lucky if I get a fucking pair of pants, at the rate my mom is taking to get her ass in gear. I can’t believe she won’t let me go by myself to the tux shop. I dunno what she thinks, that I won’t know how to do the buttons? Choke myself with the tie?! Well, fuck, maybe. But that would be on purpose.”

 

“Also, I thought this would be fun! Until the witches started showing up in droves, anyway.”

 

Eddie hummed in response. Downtown Derry passed by outside the window, while Beverly fiddled with the chain around her neck. This was turning out to be a lot more hassle than it was worth. She wondered if Eddie was even getting any enjoyment out of the prospect at all. He always just seemed jumpy and nervous every time anyone brought up the dance. More than usual.

 

“I’m sorry,” she admitted all of a sudden, when an apparent pressure built up in her chest, demanding to be expelled. “If you hate this, we can call the whole thing off.”

 

To Beverly’s surprise, Eddie snorted. She watched his eyebrows furrow incredulously in profile, pointed toward the road, since he couldn’t justify sparing a glance at her apparently.

 

“Ha-ha!  _ No _ . You made  _ me _ initiate a conversation with Gretta to get the tickets. I’m lucky I got out alive, I should sue you for emotional distress. We’re going to this trainwreck, and we’re gonna have fun.”

 

Beverly laughed, tossing her head back, relief flooding her instantly. “Yes, sir.” Leave it to Eddie to pull off comfort in the most abrasive way possible.

 

“Alright Marsh, where to  _ now _ ?”

 

“Let’s try Secondhand Rose.”

 

“Are you serious?”

 

“It’s gotta be better than what we’ve seen already.”

 

“Alright fine but I’m giving you ten minutes. The dust and shit fucks with my allergies. As if I’m not dying enough - oh my god, do you know what the pollen count was today? Ten point fucking six! These horny trees are trying to kill me.”

 

Three turns and two traffic lights later, they were pulling into the even narrower parking lot of the thrift shop. Surely, no self-respecting popular girl would be caught here, Beverly mused derisively. But they could keep their designer labels, and their daddies’ credit cards while they were at it.

 

“Speaking of horny trees,” Eddie murmured, going through the motions of parking, shutting the car off, and getting out. “You’re either really awful, or really dumb, to not notice how Bill and Ben have been tripping over themselves ever since all this shit hit the fan.”

 

Beverly grimaced as she came around to meet Eddie, aiming for a smile, even if her face wasn’t all that inclined toward it. “Is it really that awful of me?”

 

“Yes! I don’t know whether to hate you or admire you, having two handsome boys groveling at your feet.”

 

“They’re not  _ groveling _ .” Trying not to feel offended (or worse, guilty), Beverly strode into the thrift store in a bit of a fluster. As if she hadn’t been dealing this problem on a much subtler level for the last few years. What was with all this prom mania, driving her - usually, very smart! - friends to do stupid things? Though, who was she to talk?

 

“Just to be clear, you know they couldn’t possibly have both been at your locker with flowers and chocolates, for Ben’s-”

 

“I know I know.” A few circular racks of formal dresses stood in the back corner of the graying, musty store, and Beverly made a beeline, trying to string together a thought that wouldn’t make her sound like a hypocrite - you know, like the girls who had accused her of those kinds of terrible things since middle school.

 

It wasn’t her fault two of her best friends were  _ interested  _ in her. And it wasn’t like she was necessarily  _ uninterested _ . If that were the case, she would have laid down the law, a long time ago. But it hadn’t affected their friendship - hell, it still hadn’t. If they kept bumbling and stumbling around each other for the rest of the school year though, she was going to scream.

 

“Look, Bill and Ben are great guys,” she confessed into the dresses, while Eddie stood behind her, a little ways away.  _ Great _ brought particular imagery to mind - namely kisses, poems, and the distinct sensation of growing up too fast after she’d moved back from Portland. Before she could get caught up in nostalgia and summer breezes, though, she started pushing hangers aside, the screech of metal on metal pinning her to reality. 

 

“But neither of them asked me to prom,” she concluded pointedly, making a face at a purple lump of fabric with brown holes in it. “I can’t say yes to a boy who doesn’t ask me to prom. Flowers and chocolates be damned.”

 

“I guess that’s true,” she heard Eddie mutter.

 

Beverly smiled. “Besides, I sort of like the way things are. For now, anyway.”

 

“Prom date doesn’t equal boyfriend, Bev.”

 

“Well it doesn’t matter, because I’ve got an amazing prom date already.” Casting a grin and a wink over her shoulder, Beverly got a good gander at Eddie’s flattered-but-trying-to-look-surly face, all puckered and furrowed, before combing through a few more mediocre dress options.

 

“For the record, Eddie, you’re one to talk.”

 

“Wha- that’s completely different!”

 

Somehow - Beverly realized, pausing between hangers - she had completely forgotten to take the shitty state of the world, and certain secrets, into consideration. Turning fully away from the dress racks, she faced Eddie, trying to maintain empathy and privacy in the semi-public space.

 

“I know. I’m sorry.”

  
“Ugh, shut up.” Eddie threw his hands in the air, despite the anxious teeth tugging at his bottom lip. “I don’t want you to be sorry, I hate that.”

 

A similar apology built up in Beverly’s throat, until she realized the irony, and let it sink away. 

 

She could still remember, in obnoxious detail, that Saturday, last year in April. They were all such good friends, but some were better than others. Beverly would never have called her and Eddie  _ best _ , though, so she was surprised when he lingered in the foyer after a movie night at her house to talk to her. Half the Losers had gone home, and the other were passed out in the living room, so it didn’t take a genius to know he probably meant to have this conversation privately.

 

In her bedroom, it took a good deal of bullshit small talk about school and home and everything in between for Eddie to come out with it - literally, it seemed, blurting out a confession like a sour grape in his mouth.

 

Beverly, in all her poise and grace, had merely uttered an astonished  _ oh _ .

 

_ I know, it’s hard to believe. _

 

It wasn’t, actually, but she couldn’t imagine saying that would do any good. In fact, Beverly wasn’t sure what to say that  _ would  _ do any good. Eddie wasn’t exactly the type to cloy for comfort, even when he looked his most boxed-in.

 

She settled for something rather matter-of-fact.  _ Why are you telling me? Have you told anyone else? _ She at least expected Bill to come before her on the list of People To Whom This Information Should Be Revealed First.

 

_ Fuck no! Are you kidding? Bill and Mike would get all soft and sympathetic on me, and I hate that shit. I can’t even imagine how Ben would react but I know Stan would just stare and judge me and I don’t even want to think about what would come out of Richie’s mouth. I guess, I just wanted to tell you ‘cause - I dunno - you like guys too. Maybe you could relate or something, I don’t know! And I figured you wouldn’t say anything stupid, and you haven’t yet, so that’s good. _

 

Cloying or not, Beverly decided that moment was as good as any to pull Eddie into a hug, despite not being able to remember the last time she ever had, minus with the group. He didn’t push her away, though, and even crossed his arms around her, making the couple of inches he had over her in height all the more noticeable then.

 

_ Well, it’s up to you,  _ she had said, aiming for supportive and casual, feeling Eddie tense under his t-shirt,  _ but I think you shouldn’t shy from telling them, because we all really love you, Eddie. I think you’d be surprised, and then remember, how accepting they can be. _

 

He did, eventually, tell their friends. A Barrens bonfire did the trick, and even though Eddie had been right about Richie’s stupid mouth, Beverly had been pretty spot on about everything else - supportive and accepting. With friends like they had, she couldn’t have imagined any other reaction.

 

Eddie  _ didn’t  _ mention the whole part about having the hots for Richie, though, and given a lot of things, that was one decision she couldn’t really blame him for. That’s what you said if you really wanted to get a judgemental look from Stanley.

 

“This doesn’t look hideous,” Eddie said all of a sudden, tugging away a dress from further down the rack. Turning in place, he lifted his arms, revealing a black velvet top with tailored  three-quarter sleeves dipped gracefully into a slippery satin skirt, emerald green. Ornamentation of the same color curled along the line where top met skirt, casting the velvet in almost an inky green a few shades darker. Beverly keened and moved for closer inspection, if only because it was the nicest thing she had come across so far in the dusty thrift shop that didn’t look three sizes too big for her.

 

“I actually kind of like this. My aunt says green makes my hair look redder,” she gushed, taking the dress by the hanger from Eddie’s hands. It was a few years old, no doubt, but that meant no one else would have it at prom. All it needed was an ironing for the skirt and it would probably be perfect. Or as close as they would get without going into debt.

 

Turning it over in her hands, Beverly was surprised to find a cut-out back, and a big honking bow hanging off the skirt like a shimmering, sagging tumor. Judging by the look on Eddie’s face, they were on the same page about that. Luckily Beverly knew a thing or two about sewing, and owned a big pair of scissors. 

 

“I think I’ll cut the bow off,” she admitted, tossing the dress over her arm. “But what a find, Kaspbrak! And you said you didn’t know anything about fashion.”

 

Subject to Eddie’s aimless griping the whole way to the checkout counter, Beverly couldn’t imagine the soundtrack to her high school prom sounding any other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you were interested in the inspiration for Beverly's dress - https://img0.etsystatic.com/175/0/5649199/il_fullxfull.1091352548_6kzi.jpg


	5. Mike

From a sparse set of framed pictures and an album burnt brown around the edges filled with black-and-white pictures of a happy couple, one might have thought William Hanlon’s wedding tuxedo was gray, or even off-white. Decent, respectable colors. Which was why Mike took no issue when his grandfather suggested (insisted) on his wearing it to prom, instead of spending a ton of money on a rental that could have been put toward other things (turned out Stanley was right, to a certain degree). Not to mention he was proud to wear his father’s suit, and excited when his grandfather brought it back from the dry cleaners.

 

He just didn’t expect it to be bright blue, but that’s what he got from trusting outdated photography.

 

“ _ Powder  _ blue’s what they called it,” his grandfather specified, while Mike did his best to keep a straight face. “I ought to remember, with how much the damn thing cost.”

 

“Don’t you think, maybe we could look at prices at the tuxedo shop?” Mike asked, even though he probably knew the answer already. “We might be able to find something cheap. I have money saved, you probably wouldn’t have to shell out a single dime.”

 

“Mike, I’m not gonna have you throwing money away on a suit when we got a perfectly good one right here!” His grandfather smacked his hand against the flimsy plastic covering the frilly tuxedo from any outside contamination. “You’re gonna wear this and you’re gonna look handsome doing it!”

 

And so he did, staring at himself in the mirror in his bedroom that dreaded afternoon, torn between thoughtful and distressed as he stared himself down. A dusty cobalt from collar to shins, looking like he’d sooner sing with the Beatles than go to the senior prom. At least now he knew what his mom’s Something Blue had been.

 

Still, there was a bittersweet sort of pride that came over him in the tuxedo. To be honest, it fit almost perfectly, from shoulders to shins. But dwelling on that threatened to be dangerous and tearful. And with the horn honking from the Denbrough’s station wagon outside, Mike didn’t have time to do much but hurry downstairs.

 

By the time he was crossing the threshold of the front door onto the porch, Bill was climbing out of the driver’s seat, kicking up dust from the dirt driveway onto his black slacks with every step. He sported his usual solemn resting face, but when he caught sight of Mike trotting down the steps, a humorous smile quirked over his lips. 

 

“Am I d-druh-dropping you off at the disco?” he asked, only for Mike to slug him in the arm, despite the grin spread across his face.

 

“Maybe. That way I don’t have to show up to the school like this. Come on, we should get going.” Hand sliding down to Bill’s back, he tried to lead the way back around the other side of the car, knowing they had a whole band of misfits to pick up before they even hit the actual dance.

 

“Hey!” 

 

He wasn’t fast enough for his grandfather though, who appeared in the doorway waving Mike’s camera by the strap, swinging dangerously in his arthritic grip.

 

“Oh, thanks! I almost forgot.”

 

“Let me get a picture of you and your friend first. Just a couple, it won’t take long.”

 

“Okay. Do you know how to use it?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, it’s just a button, I’ve seen you do it a dozen times.”

 

Shifting a bit awkwardly, Mike and Bill eventually settled into a close, comfortable pose, sporting smiles, despite the fact that Mike wasn’t sure he even wanted to have this leg of the journey documented - with just him and Bill standing not very far away from an old barn stinking of sheep. Trying to convince his grandfather there would be pictures later would probably go over just as well as the suit had, though.

 

_ It won’t take long _ turned into several minutes, while his grandfather fumbled and fiddled with the camera and refused help, until after several snapshots he decided he was satisfied. Mike could only hope one of those had turned out clear and correct, but he wouldn’t know until his next trip to the darkroom at school and right now he had a plethora of other things to worry about.

 

Retrieving his camera, he said goodbye and squeezed his grandfather in a quick hug before finally slipping into the Denbrough car to rumble down the rest of the dirt path that would lead them to the main road. At this hour, most people were probably still in the late stages of getting ready for the dance, but with the farm so out of the way and a few stops to hit before the school, time was of the essence.

 

“Are Eddie and Bev meeting us there?” Mike asked, as they whizzed by the leagues of forest and field that separated his farm from suburban Derry.

 

“Are y-you kidding?” Bill asked, glancing away from the road briefly. “You th-th-think Mrs. K would knowingly let Eddie go to p-prom with Beverly?”

 

Oh, right. You’d think after however many years she might have gotten over that, it being the rational thing to do. But they all knew too well that Sonia Kasprak was nothing if not  _ irrational _ .

 

Mike glanced into the back of the station wagon, despite knowing they had managed to fit all seven of them in here plenty of times before. Though, now, he was just happy to be sitting pretty in the passenger’s seat.

 

“Well,” Mike drawled out, sitting back as his gaze slid sideways to Bill, “at least you get to  _ drive _ her there.”

 

Bill shushed him, but there was no hiding the flush in his cheeks, and Mike laughed good-naturedly. A couple more miles, and they turned down Ben’s street. It took awhile for the big man himself to come out, after they had parked and honked a good deal, mostly for shits and giggles. Ben came jogging up to the car, apologizing with every other step until he cranked the back door open.

 

“-sorry, sorry, my mom wouldn’t stop taking pictures.” He settled into the backseat with a sigh, dawned in a tuxedo the same color as Bill’s, apart from tie and vest. Lucky.

 

A couple streets later, they pulled up to Stanley’s house. He was standing out on the sidewalk as if he were waiting for a cab or something. A cab that was a couple hours late, if his crossed arms and the sourpuss look on his face were anything to go by.

 

“I hope you’re all pleased with yourselves,” he said when he climbed in, shutting the door soundly. Mike twisted in his seat to smile sweetly, only to be met with the most deadpan of Uris expressions. Stan finally tipped away to pull the bobby pins out of his kippah after a moment, to stow in the car where it couldn’t be taken. 

 

He’d be fine.

 

“Now  _ this _ is a party,” Richie exclaimed when they picked him up, throwing himself into the station wagon and nearly kicking Ben in the face. 

 

“What the hell did you do to your hair?” Stan demanded. Twisting around for  _ another _ time, Mike was astonished to find the brunet’s normally unruly mess of curls slicked back against his scalp, ends curling near his ears.

 

Richie grinned. “Do you like it? My mom did it. I think I look like Marlon Brando. I’m gonna rock every pussy on the dance floor.”

 

“You look like a dumbass.”

 

“Just because you have untameable Jewfro doesn’t mean you have to be an asshole, Stanley. No need to be jealous. Here, I bet I could tame the beast.” Richie slid his hands through his hair and reached for Stan, but before a shoving match could break out, Bill was telling them to knock it off as he turned down the street.

 

Usually they flipped a coin to see who would have to get Eddie, since it usually included an uncomfortable confrontation with Mrs. Kaspbrak. This time, Mike opted to go with Richie instead. Lord knew what it would look like to have one tuxedoed teenager picking up another one solo, and that sort of interpretation was the exact thing they were trying to avoid that night.

 

Mike took the liberty of knocking politely, and soon they were greeted by Mrs. Kasprak, taking up the whole doorway. She could give Stan a run for his money in the way of sourpuss expressions, if only because hers were actually enough to make Mike squirm.

 

“Mrs. K! Don’t you look ravishing this evening,” Richie gushed, eternally immune to such expressions. “Don’t suppose anyone’s taking you to the prom, are they?”

 

“Shut up, Richie!” Eddie exclaimed, scooting past his mother with a clear faceted box in his hands. Inside was a tidy little corsage in shades of white, contrasting the pearlescent green vest and bowtie beneath his black suit. “What are you standing around for, let’s go!”

 

“Just a minute, Eddie.” Mike and Richie trailed (mostly) out of earshot while Eddie stood subject to his mother’s yammering about rules and curfew, uncharacteristically subdued under her gaze. As soon as the door shut behind her, though, he was bounding off the porch, jumping to catch Mike and Richie around the shoulders with his usual energy.

 

Once they were all back in the station wagon, only Beverly was left, no more than a neighborhood away. When Bill rolled to a stop outside her house, she was already outside on the lawn, propped in front of the rose bushes as her aunt played with the camera.

 

“Oh,” Bill muttered.

 

“Gosh,” Ben whispered.

 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Richie drawled.

 

Beverly caught sight of them, and abandoned her mini photoshoot altogether in favor of trotting up to the car. Her hair, usually swept back in an easy ponytail, was done up in a half-do now, curled beyond its usual wave and all clipped together with a silver barrette Mike remembered her wearing at Christmas. Her black and green tea length dress wasn’t like anything else she owned, or wore before. 

 

Mike liked to think he was better than thinking of her as just  _ one of the guys _ , because she was so much more than that. And yet, at that moment, he (along with everyone else in the car) was suddenly, thoroughly reminded that Beverly Marsh was a gorgeous young woman who for some reason spent her time with a bunch of annoying teenage boys.

 

“Don’t you all clean up good!” She beamed, leaning into the open window on Bill’s side. Up close, Mike could see the shimmery stuff on her eyelids, and the pink tint on her lips. “Eddie, get out here, my aunt will kill me if we don’t take pictures.”

 

Eddie shuffled out first, and the rest came bumbling after, straightening lapels and trousers all the while. He and Bev exchanged a matching corsage and boutonniere, and even though the whole thing was wrought with awkward giggling, they seemed pretty pleased with themselves. The five dateless losers were left leaning against the Denbrough station wagon while Eddie and Beverly got their photo taken, looking as pretty as - well, pretty as a picture.

 

“Okay, come on, now everyone,” Mike called finally, lifting his camera from around his neck. “We’re losing daylight!”

 

He gave Bev’s aunt a crash course on how to use his camera, before joining his friends in front of the bushes. Mike settled himself squarely between Stanley and Bill, his arms coming up over two pairs of broad shoulders, squeezing the life back into boys who had a hard time loosening up.

 

A countdown from three and the camera flashed, lighting up all their cheesing faces in white for a split second. Immortalizing them as a bunch of gussied up teenagers, who put far more effort into a social gathering than anyone ever ought to, outside a wedding.

 

They got a couple more shots in before Bill started ushering them back to the car. Mike was quick to grab shotgun again, where he couldn’t be accused of sitting on flowers or scuffing shoes.

 

“You and Eds are wearing green,” Richie said, relegated to the far back when Beverly’s dress demanded more room. “What a coincidence, I am also wearing green. Technically, that’s like all  _ three _ of us are dates. Who would’ve thunk!”

 

“I thought you said your mom didn’t want you to wear green?” Stanley cut in ruthlessly.

 

“We came to a compromise. It was either this, or the leopard print. I also threatened to just wear my birthday suit.”

 

“I’m sorry I asked.”

 

Nothing in Derry was ever too far away from Point A to Point B, and that remained true, when they rolled up to the high school soon after their stop at Beverly’s. Light and music pulsed out of the gym windows. Other students filed inside, holding hands, goofing around in groups. Lucky that they didn’t have to worry about any undue attention that night.

 

But Mike was still convinced this could be fun for all seven of them. “Come on, guys let’s head inside. We gotta get a decent table.”

 

“I’m not so sure about this anymore,” Eddie started, fiddling with the buttons on his tuxedo jacket. “I mean, I was never sure about it. But now I’m extra not sure.”

 

“Yeah I’ve been banking on this being a crapshoot since I got dressed this afternoon,” Stan added, making no move to vacate the station wagon.

 

“You guys.” Normally, Mike left the initiative stuff to Bill, since he always took it, and everyone (including himself) was pretty happy to follow him. But right now, Bill was looking a little bit like a frightened sheep, and he had a whole flock of wary lambs in the backseat. And if Mike knew anything about sheep, it was that they weren’t known for leading. Sometimes, he just had to act the Border Collie, and get them all where they needed to be.

 

“I did not drive all the way here in  _ this _ suit just to go home,” he declared, halfway out of the car already. “You guy didn’t spend money on suits and dresses just to call it a day. Now correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure we’ve squared off against worse than this.”

 

They exchanged wary glances, slowly solidifying into certain expressions. Of all people, Eddie was the first to unbuckle his seatbelt, and Beverly pushed open the door soon after. Once more, they piled out, the Denbrough station wagon serving as the eternal clown car to their various excursions. 

 

Mike tried not to think about how he had sealed his own fate, in his dad’s suit. But his few words had worked, and that was all that mattered. He didn’t have control over a lot in this world, but he hoped that he could at least make sure this night was fun for them. Fun, and safe.

 

If only the two weren’t so mutually exclusive in a town like Derry.


End file.
